


For the Right Guy

by Storygirl82



Category: Practical Magic (1998)
Genre: Adult Content, Adult Language, Attraction, Carnival, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Fluff and Smut, Fortune Telling, It's been a while for poor Gillian, Let's travel back in time to 2001, Love, Love at First Sight, Lust, Magic, Romance, Sally and Gary are married, Sally is preggers, Smut, Some Plot, Some angst, Soulmates, Three Years Later, Witchcraft, Witches, gypsies, summertime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 01:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storygirl82/pseuds/Storygirl82
Summary: A highly unusual heatwave comes to Maria’s Island, as well as a carnival. Then there's the compelling pull Gillian Owens feels towards a handsome stranger- a pull she just can’t ignore.





	For the Right Guy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer-**  
>  All characters portrayed in this fic are the property of their respective owners, which isn’t me. I make no money from this. It’s purely a work of fanfiction.

* * *

  
_There is witchcraft in your breath, your lips, the tips of your fingers. A word uttered in silence; a symbol etched into the wax of a tapered candle, these are the gestures of your craft. The passion of your creative mind and the ferocity in your eyes are the craft itself._  


_-Eibhlincatha (Tumblr)  
_

*** 

_“You ever put your arms out and spin really, really fast? Well, that’s what love is like.”_

_-Gillian Owens_

* * *

It was a bizarrely sweltering August on Maria’s Island, and the typical cool kiss of the coastal breeze seemed to have inexplicably packed its bags and went elsewhere for the remainder of the summer. It wasn’t heard of, for summers in Massachusetts to creep past the boundary of ninety degrees. If they ever did, it was typically in July, which was usually the hottest month of the year. 

Yet, there they all were, mid-August, and roasting like rotisserie chickens on a spit, as the heat climbed to a record-breaking one hundred and five degrees; a record that hadn’t been beat in Massachusetts since July fourth of _1911._

All over the island swamp coolers and air conditioners labored on overdrive, and the local market’s sales positively boomed with purchases of ice, cold drinks, pop-sickles, and ice cream- anything to help residents battle the stifling weather.

Ray’s Hardware was completely sold out of anything that came even remotely close to resembling a fan. In fact, a bit of a scuffle had broken out the day before, between two elderly gentlemen who had been attempting to bare-knuckle-box over the last spray-bottle mister-fan, before Ray himself had intervened.

Other than sparking heat-shortened tempers, the unusual weather also stirred-up a good measure of bewilderment and disquiet. Who had ever heard of an island that didn’t get an ocean breeze?! The locals all murmured under their breaths about bad juju and hexes, but surprisingly enough, no one turned an accusing eye towards the Owens women, which attested to just how much times had changed.

Just like everyone else, Gillian Owens was so very over sweating like a politician submitting to a polygraph test. It was a thoroughly unpleasant state of being- frying in your own juices like a slab of bacon in skillet; a sensation she had thought she’d left behind when she’d bid the Arizona state line a silent farewell from the passenger-side mirror of Jimmy’s midnight-blue Oldsmobile 442, over three years ago.

The aunts had declared the strange heatwave a _sign,_ but Gillian had no idea if the sign in which they referred to was supposed to be good or bad. Aunt Jet and Aunt Frances had been strangely tight-lipped the past few days, their usual easy banter, and witty remarks, oddly absent and replaced with twin looks that seemed to consistently fluctuate from knowing, smug grins to curious, contemplative observation. Unnervingly enough for Gillian, **she** appeared to be the center of their focus. 

Not once, but twice now, she’d caught them whispering around the house, low under their breaths, like co-conspirators to a crime. When she had jokingly asked them, _“And just what are you two hens clucking about?”_ they’d responded with overly wide, pasted-on smiles and a perfectly in sync _“Nothing, dear.”_ Their unsettling reply had instantly caused Gillian’s hackles to rise in immediate suspicion. 

Oh yes, they were definitely up to something and the more their unsettling behavior lingered on, just like the unwelcome heatwave that stubbornly refused to let the briny ocean breeze roll back in, the more Gillian found the whole thing as bothersome as a popcorn cornel stuck between her teeth- jabbing and poking at her, until her nerves were thoroughly wrung-out with unvoiced frustration. 

So, on day three of Jet and Frances pinning her with odd, piercing stares that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise on end, Gillian decided to stop by Verbena, on her way to work her shift at the Morning Glory Café. 

The aunts usually only stopped into Sally’s shop when they were out on their weekly stroll around town, every Saturday afternoon, which wasn’t until tomorrow. So there was no risk of Jet and Frances overhearing Gillian voice her concerns to her sister about their weird behavior.

However, much to her disappointment (and further frustration), Sally only laughed it off with an exaggerated roll of her cocoa-brown eyes.

“They’re probably just meddling, Gilly. It’s what they do. They’re probably just sticking their noses in someone’s love-life again. They always act weird when they’ve got their eyes set on a new target and you know they’re never going to quit with that. They’ve always been fairly secretive about it, so best to just ignore them and leave them to it,” Sally told her, as she went about setting out a new selection of tester lotions on the pristine white countertop. 

That was precisely what Gillian was afraid of. To be more specific, she was worried that the aforementioned _someone_ , whose love-life the aunts were currently sticking their noses into, just might be hers. 

The galling irony that Sally (who used to have a major stick up her ass, concerning the aunts and their meddling), could now so breezily shrug it off as merely the amusing antics of two acentric old ladies, was not lost on Gillian in the least. It only stoked the smoldering ember of her restless irritation all the more.

“Oh sure, Sal. Easy for you to say. You’re now off their radar because you and Gary are happily married, with an ankle-biter on the way. Meanwhile, we single ladies are tossed to the witchy wolves,” Gillian muttered, helping herself to a generous sample of pink jasmine hand cream, moodily rubbing the butter-soft lotion between her palms, as if its fresh, floral scent had somehow offended her.

“Well, Gilly-bean…it has been a while. I mean, Maria’s curse was broken, so if the aunts are trying to set you up with someone, which you so clearly suspect them of doing, maybe you shouldn’t fight it? You have to admit, three-plus years of flying solo is an eternity for you. Maybe it’s time to, you know, get back out there again? I mean, it’s _2001_ , Gilly. We even have _internet_ dating now. Couldn’t hurt to see what’s out there,” Sally suggested, her tone bordering on distracted as she added, “Besides it’s not like the aunts are going to cast anything on you. They promised me ages ago, no more love or lust spells on family members, ever again.”

Gillian let out a short huffing sigh of agitation and prepared to launch into a catty diatribe about how it was only time for her to _“get back out there again”_ when **she** said it was, and out of all people, Sally should respect and understand that. 

However, when she finally noticed that Sally’s eyes had taken on that tell-tale dreamy sort of softness, Gillian followed her sister’s positively twinkling gaze out of the shop’s window front, to none other than a swiftly approaching Gary.

Gillian promptly swallowed her would-be words of sisterly exasperation right back down and silently conceded that it was neither the time nor the place, for that sort of conversation.

She couldn’t help but feel the cold prickle of disappointment throb low in her gut. She’d thought she’d be able to simply bitch about her concerns, while Sally nodded along sympathetically, giving Gillian the rapt, undivided attention to which she was accustomed. 

Now they were in danger of venturing onto a topic that made her insides knot-up worse than aunt Jet’s tragically disorganized basket of knitting yarn, and Sally was only partially present in the conversation! 

Sure, it was bizarre; Gillian Owens, man-eater extraordinaire, scared to death of dating when the better part of her life, so far, had been wasted hopping from one pointless relationship to the next. However, spending the last three years genuinely getting to know herself, without a guy in the picture to sway her decisions or misdirect her inner sense of focus, had been surprisingly pleasant. 

Furthermore, wasn’t it only natural, to be gun-shy after you’d been possessed by the evil spirit of your mentally unhinged, murderous ex? 

Besides, Gillian had no earthly clue how to accurately convey to glowing, blissful Sally, her now deep-rooted fear that behind every attractive smile of a stranger, lurked a predator in wait…Just like Jimmy. 

“Well, looks like your husband is coming to check on you, for what’s probably the hundredth time today. Lucky you, being located just around the corner from the Sheriff's station. I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your disgustingly sweet PDA. Try not to make Carla and Linda vomit. I gotta get to work,” Gillian teased, suddenly more than a tad relieved at the convenient exit her brother in-law’s appearance provided.

“Oh, we keep a bucket in the back, just for that,” Carla quipped with a wink, as she went about stocking a box of sandalwood massage oil.

Linda let out a high-pitched cackle, which the frizzy-haired blonde then tried to unsuccessfully smother in the open notebook she appeared to be keeping track of Verbena’s inventory in. 

“Kay, see you at home, Gilly,” Sally murmured, ignoring the evident amusement of her two employees.

For some odd reason Gillian found herself lingering; truly studying her sister’s hungry eyes as they practically ate Gary alive, when he strolled through the shop’s door, looking a bit sweaty, but admittedly handsome (as Sally had once put it- _"in a penal code sort of way"_ ), in his brown and khaki Sheriff's uniform. 

Gillian tried her best to ignore the squirming wriggle of envy that sometimes stirred within her gut when she watched Sally get all flushed and starry-eyed over her soulmate. She was happy for Sal, of course, she was! 

Yet Gillian couldn’t quite keep her traitorous mind from calculating just how many times she’d tried to force that kind of connection with a man, only to have things fizzle-out and turn cold…or in Jimmy’s case- get downright scary. 

“Hey there, darlin.’ Denise made those devil’s food brownies you’ve said you’ve been craving. So I thought I’d bring ‘em over real quick,” Gary told Sally in that easy, cowboy-esque drawl of his that was just so very _Arizona_ , grinning wide as he held up a piece of Tupperware.

He then paused to wipe a beaded patch of perspiration from his forehead, with the back of his free hand, while grumbling under his breath about how the usually cool Massachusetts weather had made him _“too damn soft.”_

However, Gary’s griping was pretty short-lived, because the second his mismatched eyes centered back on Sally’s, they lit-up in that special way that they only did for his wife; his complaints evidently forgotten.

“Ooh! Denise’s brownies! Aunt Jet gave me one of hers this morning for breakfast, and I will deny it to my last breath if you ever tell her, but they just aren’t the same,” Sally grinned, coming from behind the counter to wrap her arms around her husband’s neck and pepper the side of his face in adoring kisses of gratitude, heedless of his sweaty state.

Denise Little (the Maria’s Island Sheriff's office dispatch lady) was a complete genius when it came to baked goods. Even the aunts, who were hailed as confectionary goddesses themselves, hounded her relentlessly for her secret family recipes, which Denise utterly refused to give up.

“Thanks, honey,” Sally beamed, still wrapped around her husband like an ivy vine on a fence post, “you always take such good care of me.”

“Speakin’a which, how’s the womb-monkey? You’ve been keeping a kick-count like the doc told you yesterday, right?” Gary asked, his Tupperware-free hand immediately sliding down to Sally’s round belly. 

Sally’s baby bulge kind of reminded Gillian of a giant, artfully painted Easter egg, with the way it strained against her sister’s brightly colored paisley skirt.

“Yes, Gar. I’m keeping count, this isn’t my first rodeo, remember?” Sally assured him with an indulgent smile, “I’m positive our baby bun is safe and sound in my oven. No worries, babe. Kylie and Antonia had easy, complication-free gestations and births. Like I keep telling you, I’m sure this one will have the same as her sisters.”

“I know, it’s just that it’s my first time’a round with this baby stuff. So I can’t help but be a little anxious. Besides, I worry about you two, with this damn heatwave showing no sign of lettin’ up and you refusing to let Linda and Carla takeover running the shop until the baby’s born,” Gary told Sally, rubbing protective circles over her paisley-covered belly, his dark brow knitting in concern. 

Gillian silently mused that her brother-in-law had best get used to this _“baby stuff”_ pretty quick. Because like it or not (plan for it or not), there **would** be another baby girl born precisely two years later. If said baby girl’s older sister were born with dark hair, then she would be born with a bright, fiery red (or vice versa). 

That was the way it always was with Owens women; just like aunt Frances and aunt Jet, and then their two younger siblings, Regina (she and Sally's mother), and Camilla (the aunt they'd never met, who’d died in a tragic car accident as a baby). 

The unusual biological _tradition_ (of two girls, exactly two years apart, one brunette and one ginger), had gone on and on since the days of Maria’s two daughters. It was a trait that had carried on throughout Maria’s long line of all-female descendants. Like with Sally and herself, then Kylie and Antonia, and would doubtlessly continue again with the children Sally had with Gary.

“Relax, Gar. As you can feel for yourself, the air conditioning in here works just fine. Now, let me at those brownies,” Sally replied (effectively braking Gillian out of her revive of the Owens’ familial history), as her sister tried to snatch the Tupperware from her husband’s hand. 

However, said husband seemed to refuse to relinquish it just yet.

“Not so fast, Mrs. Hallet. You gotta pay the toll first,” Gary grinned wolfishly.

Sally let out a girlish giggle, happily pressing her mouth to his, in a kiss that quickly escalated from G-rated to one that made every customer in the shop suddenly take an avid interest in looking at their shoes, reminding Gillian that she was **supposed** to be leaving,

“Looks like that bucket of yours is going to get a lot of use today, Carla,” Gillian quipped with a good-humored roll of her eyes, as she quickly squeezed past the smooching couple.

“Don’t forget that you and the aunts promised to take the girls to the carnival tonight after you get off work!” Sally called after her, apparently coming up for air, as Gillian slipped back out into the suffocating afternoon heat.

“I won’t!” Gillian called back, as Verbena’s glass door shut behind her, with a tinkling jingle of its bell.

“Don’t worry, Sal. The house will be empty tonight, so you and Gary can bone in peace,” she mumbled under her breath.

Gillian chuckled at her own joke, quickening her long-legged stride down the two sunbaked blocks to the café, hoping in vain she wouldn’t look like a big sweaty mess when she got to work. 

She genuinely liked working at the Morning Glory. Gloria Cancher, the elderly owner, was the just sweetest. She also had a mile-deep soft-spot for Gillian ever since her daughter, Dori Cancher, recounted the drama of the bizarre night all the phone tree moms had come to help Sally exercise Jimmy’s rancid soul from Gillian’s body.

 _“I’ve had a man or two do me wrong as well. My daughter, Dorie, has unfortunately also known that kinda pain. You know, with that no-good ex-husband of hers and all. Although, your situation probably takes the cake, as far as bad breakups go. Trust me though; I know how important it is, getting a leg-up when you’ve been kicked down. So, consider this your leg, Miss Owens. You’re hired,”_ Gloria had told her when Gillian had tentatively handed over her application. 

She recalled feeling both shock and relief, as she’d returned the older woman’s warm smile and clasped her wrinkled hand in an enthusiastic shake of gratitude. It seemed somehow official then; the acceptance she and her family had unexpectedly gained, after the exorcism, wasn’t just temporary like she’d initially thought. It was kinda funny really, Gillian hadn’t truly realized just how badly she’d craved to be accepted, here in the place she’d grown up- until she finally was. 

She’d thoroughly convinced herself that the _please, please like me_ , hopeful puppy bit was entirely Sally’s shtick, and Sally’s alone. Gillian had told herself that roaming all over the country, dancing from man-to-man along the way, was totally her choice; her declaring her independence as a modern, confident woman- in charge of her own destiny, and that **no one** had chased her off. 

If she had ever dared to voice those claims aloud, Gillian supposed aunt Frances would have bluntly told her that her words bore the distinct smell of bullshit.

So, feeling more than a bit humbled, she’d taken the job offer from Gloria Cancher, with an enthusiastic _“When can I start?”_ and had been working at the café ever since. 

True, one didn’t make a killing waiting tables at a small-town, island eatery, but the customers were mostly pleasant, and the tips were decent. Besides, anything beat working at Verbena, where she’d felt all but useless and in the way. Sally had stubbornly refused to admit that there wasn’t room for her, even though there were already two full-time employees working in the small shop. 

So, after two long months of feeling oddly guilty for having nothing much to do, except sit around and _product test_ (aka using-up a good amount of Sally’s merchandise due to sheer boredom), Gillian had decided it was time to seek other employment opportunities. 

Gloria putting up that cherry-red _Help Wanted_ sign in the window of the café, just as she’d passed by, still felt like a good turn of fate to Gillian; even after three years of having to accommodate picky customers and clearing away their sometimes-disgusting leavings. 

It was what old-school, boring people typically referred to as _good, honest work_ , but hey, she felt like it humanized her; made her a functional part of society again, rather than a pampered princess used to always having a sugar-daddy lover to pay her way. So if that made her boring now too, so be it.

By the time the Morning Glory Café’s bright purple awning came into view, Gillian had sweat pouring in rivulets down her overheated forehead, getting into her squinting eyes and creating a rather annoying sting. 

Really, the damn heat could go hang itself already!

Gillian dug in her oversized black leather handbag and triumphantly pulled out the bottle of water that she’d stashed in there before heading out of the house. She chugged the blessedly still-cool liquid as if her life depended on it, without so much as pausing for a breath. She thanked her lucky stars that the café had working A.C. and that Gloria didn’t implement a dress code. 

If she’d had to walk to work wearing anything but her jean cut-off shorts, and her favorite forest-green crop-top, Gillian figured that she might have very well melted into a puddle of witchy goo on the sidewalk. She really had no clue how she was going to endure the Carnival tonight, but she’d promised the girls, and hopefully, things would cool off a bit by then.

“Hurry up and get in here, girl, before you cook-up as red as a lobster! You poor gingers burn so easy!” Gloria called to her, sticking her silver/blonde head out of the café’s entrance. 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Gillian grinned, rubbing the dripping sweat from her eyes and trying not to think of the sorry state her mascara and eyeliner were probably in.

* * *

After washing her heat-flushed face, fixing her previously smeared eye makeup, and pinning up her sweat-dampened hair in the jeweled clip Sally had gotten her for her last birthday (which she always liked to keep handy in her purse), Gillian stepped out of the café’s bathroom with an unexplainable spring in her step. She had a strange, deeply rooted feeling that today was going to be a good day.

_Yup, the best._

She inwardly told herself, unflappable optimism suddenly cresting over her, as she slipped on her black canvas work apron, with little morning glory flowers stitched intricately along the seam at the top.

_It’ll be a day to surpass all days!_

The unbidden thought popped into Gillian’s head like someone flicking on a light (bright and sudden), as she tied her apron strings with quick, eager movements; practically champing at the bit to see where the workday led her.

* * *

Too bad it didn’t lead anywhere good!

Gillian was having the worst shift **ever**! Three separate tables had sent back their food, claiming it was either too hot or too cold. Earl (the cook) had chosen to bypass the old _don’t shoot the messenger_ adage, to uncharacteristically shout at her, as if the food’s yo-yoing temperature was somehow her fault.

A table full of surly (and somewhat smelly) fishermen who had refused to bend to her usually irresistible wiles and had rudely stiffed her on a tip, just because she’d forgotten to tell Earl to hold the mayo on one of their chicken clubs. They hadn’t cracked so much as a ghost of a smile, no matter how she’d tried to flirt her way back into their good graces.

Then Gillian had dropped a mug that she’d gathered from the cheapskate fishermen’s recently evacuated table, getting half-drunken, cold coffee everywhere and painfully slicing her thumb when she’d automatically stooped down to gather up the stark white shards without thinking. She’d dribbled blood all the way back to the kitchen, where she had half-assed bandaging her thumb with a trembling hand.

As that cold bitch, _fate_ , would then have it, Loid (the teenager who washed dishes and helped bus tables), slipped on Gillian’s blood droplets. He’d been rushed to the hospital with a concussion, after falling and cracking his head on the hard checkerboard patterned floor. 

Gloria had gone with him. She’d left Gillian, and the three other waitresses, to fend for themselves, which caused nothing but a flurry of arguments and pointless power-struggles amongst the other ladies, over who had been left in charge, even though Gloria had never specified.

To make matters even worse, throughout all of this chaos, Gillian kept experiencing the oddest and jarringly disconcerting things. When she’d gone to refill the ketchup bottle at table three, she’d stopped suddenly in her tracks, swearing to herself that she could hear the husky, inaudible murmurings of a sultry male voice, whispering low in her ear. 

When she’d gone to table four to hand-out menus, an inexplicable bolt of lust had hit her out of nowhere; making her sex dampen her panties, forcing her thighs to clamp tightly together in a mindless effort to gain some sort of relief. For the first time since she was eighteen, Gillian Owens found herself sneaking to the bathroom, so she could frantically rub herself to lip-biting climax while at work.

When she’d washed her hands and returned to her tables, Gillian found that she could taste the distinctively salty, and slightly bitter, taste of a man’s release coating her tongue. What in the Goddess’s name was going on?! 

As soon as the unsettling taste had dissipated in her mouth, taking with it her unexplained and overbearing arousal, Gillian found herself feeling disturbingly antsy; like she was going to burst clear out of her skin if she didn’t keep moving, moving, moving. 

She had a bizarre, itchy sort of wiggle in her fingertips and unbidden, sharp shivers kept traversing the length of her spine at the most inconvenient times; causing her to jump while bringing out a tray of drinks. She’d spilled soda and iced tea **everywhere**. 

All the while, Gillian swore that she could feel the heat outside pressing in all around the café’s outer walls, as if it were trying to claw its way through the brick, mortar, and plaster, just to get at her.

By the time the hour hand of the café’s black and white _Felix the Cat_ wall clock had precariously settled on six (signaling the near end of her shift), Gloria had returned from the hospital to announce that Loid would be just fine and had urged Gillian to go on home and sleep off whatever _“bad juju”_ she seemed to have stepped in.

With that hasty exit provided, Gillian had all but sprinted out the café’s door, like a convict just released from prison. The heat, although toned down a bit from earlier, was still uncomfortably cloying. Was it just her imagination, or did the stifling air almost seem to part around her, like a curtain being pulled back, beseeching her entrance? 

Ugh, this freak show of a day just kept messing with her head! All Gillian wanted to do was smoke about a half a carton of cigarettes, take an ice-cold shower, chug down a bottle of red wine, then curl up in her bed with the A.C. on full-blast and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist for a little while.

Too bad her suddenly recalled obligation, about the girls and the carnival, hit her like a punch to the face, effectively ceasing her steps in the homeward direction. 

“Aunt Gillian! Are you ready for the carnival?!” Antonia shouted in the high-pitched decibel that only a child could manage, as she and Kylie suddenly jogged up the sidewalk to meet her, the aunts leisurely meandering behind them.

“Um…yeah. You betcha,” Gillian forced a thinly stretched smile, her usual self-centered impulses instantly giving way to the much stronger desire not to disappoint her nieces.

Besides, Gary and Sally had an annoying habit of making love all over the house whenever they thought no one was home. Gillian had absolutely no desire whatsoever to repeat the day (about six months ago), when the aunts had been away visiting friends, the girls had been at school, and she’d come home early from the café, because she’d started coming down with the flu and Gloria had told her to go home and get some rest. 

The one time of venturing into the indoor greenhouse to gather up the ingredients to make aunt Frances’ _get-better-fast-tonic_ and seeing her brother-in-law’s bare ass, while he exuberantly pounded into Sally from behind (who had been bent over the wooden worktable), was mentally scarring enough, thank you very much…even if a part of Gillian had struggled to bite back an amused snort of laughter and had silently praised her sister’s uncharacteristically spontaneous behavior, with an unspoken (but heard all the same): _“Go, Sal!”_

As she recalled, Gary had likewise thought it an experience best never repeated, and had once again taken up the repetition-worn argument of why he, Sally, and the girls, should move out and get their own place; the very same axe he’d been grinding on and off, ever since he and Sally got married, about two years ago. 

Yet, as always, the girls came home wailing, having heard their stepdad’s words, even though they’d been in school, across town, when he’d said them. They’d sobbed and blubbered, until they’d made themselves sick, crying that they didn’t want to go because they loved Maria’s house and that _she_ loved them. 

As always, the house had then furthered their point (while punishing Gary at the same time). As per usual, every lamp in the downstairs parlor (Gary’s favorite room to read in) inexplicably shorted out every time Gary sat down to read after supper, yet somehow worked just fine the second he left the room. 

Over the following three days of his insisting that he was sticking to his plan of moving his family this time and wasn’t going to let a damn house tell him what-was-what, all the hot water had turned as cold as the arctic, whenever he’d attempted to take a shower or bath…again. 

All Gary’s favorite foods (and Gary’s alone) had spoiled in the fridge and cupboards overnight, no matter how fresh they were…again. 

Whenever he’d tried to cook on the stove, it scorched whatever he’d been attempting to make to an unrecognizable charcoal briquette…again.

Everyone else had enjoyed coffee always being ready in the pot (even when no one had remembered to make any), smelling honeysuckle and sunshine in every room, and finding their beds always miraculously made in the morning and turned down before retiring for the night. 

Gary, however, found the coffee to taste old and burnt, even though it didn’t taste that way to anyone else. He smelled nothing but the lip-curling stink of sour milk wherever he went in the house, and his side of the bed was never made or turned down- only Sally’s. Whenever he'd made up his side on his own, he’d reportedly find it all messed-up, when he later returned to his and Sally’s room…again. 

As always, on the fourth day, Gary had loudly announced to the house that she wasn’t winning this time and that she was only furthering his point that it was time to _“get the hell out of dodge.”_ He had then snatched-up the phone to make a same-day appointment with Mr. Hobbs, the island’s realtor…again.

The power had then promptly cut-off and the yellow rosebushes, which grew along the front of the wraparound porch, grew so voraciously (in no time at all) that they’d completely covered the front and back doors- forcing Gary to wriggle out of a window with a chainsaw (that he now kept handy in the hall closet)… **again.**

About two hours into trying to hack away the gnarled, thorny barriers, and making absolutely no headway whatsoever, Gary Hallet had conceded with his hands raised in the air, in exhausted surrender- that maybe they could stay just a little bit longer. Just like that, everything had gone back to normal, just as it always did whenever Gary inevitably caved-in like a cardboard box left out in the rain.

Gillian was beginning to doubt that the house (who had become like a living entity ever since the curse had been broken), would ever let Sally’s family leave. Aunt Jet said it was Maria’s spirit, wanting to hold on to the good still dwelling within her home, now that the bitterness of her curse had been lifted. 

Truth be told, aside from Gary’s occasional house-war meltdowns, and her having to remember to ring the doorbell to announce her presence when she came home early, Gillian rather liked having _Clan Hallet_ living under the same roof as her. 

She liked waking up to Sally and Gary humming along to old Dolly Parton songs playing on the kitchen stereo, as they went about making breakfast for everyone (even if watching their domestic bliss did sometimes make Gillian long for something she was now fairly sure she would never have). 

She liked hearing Kylie and Antonia’s laughter barreling down the winding staircase, and she (quite unexpectedly) liked the idea of getting to take a turn rocking the new baby to sleep when said baby finally made her fabulous debut into the world.

What Gillian **didn’t** like, however, was two old biddies braking their promise to never cast any sort of love or lust spell on family. They **must** have been casting; it was the only explanation for all the day’s weirdness.

Those very same old biddies were now strolling up to her, lace parasols in hand, having the gall to look charmingly innocent in their floppy straw hats, billowy sleeveless tops, and blousy capri pants. Oh, but she was onto them! They didn’t fool her in the least!

“Hey girls, why don’t you two go on up ahead. I gotta talk to the aunts for a minute, Okay? Here, take this and get us all some cotton candy and cold drinks. Keep the change for games,” Gillian told her nieces, as she fished a pair of crumpled twenties out of her bag and slapped them into Kylie’s hand. 

“Umm…okay. Everything alright, Aunt Gillian?” Kylie asked, her blue eyes scouring over Gillian in the way a scientist might thoughtfully observe a particularly perplexing specimen under the lens of their microscope.

It seemed to Gillian that as soon as Kylie had turned thirteen (over a year ago), her eldest niece’s powers of observation had gotten far too keen for her own good. The girl had always been pretty in tune with her surroundings, and the people who occupied them. Yet as soon as puberty had officially hit, there was no keeping **anything** from her.

“Yeah. Just peachy. Now go on,” Gillian lied right through her painfully stretched smile. 

The responding look on Kylie’s face told Gillian that, under no uncertain terms, was she buying it. However, she took her younger sister by the hand and nodded her agreement all the same.

“Come on Antonia, let’s go see if they have that frozen lemonade that they had when we went with mom and Gary,” Kylie suggested to the younger girl, who enthusiastically nodded her dark head in approval of the new plan.

“Be safe! Stay together!” aunt Jet called after them as they took off in the direction of the sprawling park, just across from town hall, where the carnival was being held.

“Now dear, you might as well spill whatever seems to be chaffing you worse than sand in your underpants,” Aunt Frances sighed in the manner of one wearily accepting an argument was well on its way.

“Oh my! Your aura is positively crackling with tension, Gillian! Whatever is the matter?” aunt Jet asked. 

Genuine concern shone brightly in her aunt’s blue eyes, but Gillian found it did nothing but rankle her already rising temper all the more.

“Don’t give me that crap! You two **know** what’s going on!” Gillian huffed, digging in her bag for her ever so slightly squashed pack of cigarettes and her favorite silver lighter, with the Playboy Bunny logo on it. 

“I thought you promised your sister you would quit?” Frances arched a dark brow, her trademark slightly smug (and quietly amused) grin tugging at the corners of her red-lipsticked mouth.

“Yeah, well that seems to be the theme of today, doesn’t it? Braking promises to Sally? Just like you two promised that you wouldn’t cast love, or lust, spells at family members anymore, but here we are!” Gillian let out a humorless chuckle plucking a cigarette from her misshapen pack and angrily jamming it between her lips.

“Gillian Lavinia Owens! That is a very serious accusation! We’ve kept that promise most faithfully! We wouldn’t ever dream of going back on it, not after what happened to poor, dear Michael and how it nearly destroyed Sally to lose him!” aunt Jet gasped in indignation, her round cheeks reddening in a rare display of temper.

Gillian had to admit, aunt Jet’s seemingly genuine spark of outrage gave her pause. Could she possibly be wrong in her assumption of the aunts’ magical meddling? But what other explanation was there?

“So, you’ve supposedly still kept to this promise? Even after Sally and I broke the curse?” Gillian mumbled around her unlit cigarette, still suspicious.

“Gillian, there isn’t any **supposedly** about it. Curse or no curse, tragedy can still strike unexpectedly. Franny and I have long since decided that we can’t take any more of the kind of guilt that comes from toying with the free will of someone we love, only to watch their hearts become shattered before our very eyes, because of our careless actions. Once was enough. It was a hard and painful lesson to learn, but learn it we did,” aunt Jet told her resolutely, the older woman’s carillon-blue eyes beginning to brim with the crystalline threat of tears.

“Geez, aunt Jet…don't you dare cry. Because if you cry, then I’ll cry and it’s just too goddamn hot for that right now,” Gillian sighed, quickly lighting her cigarette, then tossing her lighter back in her cluttered disarray of a purse.

She took a long, cathartic drag of her cig; greedily sucking in the nicotine-laced smoke like a drowning person would suck in air.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” Gillian conceded, the hesitant apology coming on the heels of her languorously exhaled puff of smoke, “It’s just that some really weird shit happened to me at the café today and it has me kind of spooked. It just seemed like the only explanation was that someone was messing with me, but if you say you didn’t, then I believe you.”

With that, she wrapped an arm around Jet’s shoulders, affectionately squeezing the older woman into her side; a silent request for forgiveness for her shortness and eagerness to accuse.

“It’s alright, dear. It’s this nasty heat. It’s making everyone more than a bit short-tempered. Franny insisted on working out in the garden this morning, even after I told her it wasn’t a good idea to be laboring in this weather. After she’d been out there for about a half an hour, I popped out to let her know we were out of creamer, so she’d have to take her coffee black. Oh boy, she just about bit my head clean off my shoulders!” aunt Jet laughed good-naturedly, returning Gillian’s one-armed hug with her parasol-free hand.

“Well, what can I say? Some of us take our sweetened coffee very seriously,” aunt Frances drawled, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Although, now I have to ask, Gillian, what sort of _weird shit_ are we talking about here? What would make you think someone was casting at you?” aunt Frances asked, her brown eyes flickering with wariness.

Gillian plucked her cigarette from her mouth, wedging it between her middle and pointer fingers, as she parted her lips to recount the strange whispering in her ear, the odd arousal that had hit her out of nowhere, the unexplainable taste of a man’s essence on her tongue, the peculiar wiggly, itchy sensation that was still squirming just beneath her skin…but for some strange reason, the words just wouldn’t come forth. 

What had happened earlier suddenly felt strangely personal, too personal to share, and Gillian hadn’t the faintest idea why. Sally had always been the buttoned-up, prudish one out of the two of them. Being squeamish about discussing things like arousal and the taste of semen, had never been an issue with Gillian. In fact, over-sharing was usually her M.O. 

That wasn’t the case anymore, because the thought of regaling her earlier experiences in the café, to her aunts, made her stomach suddenly twist into uncomfortable knots of unease, which was pretty stupid if Gillian were completely honest with herself. 

If something terrible was going on, which it very well might be, then it was only logical that she tell the two people who were the best equipped to handle it. There wasn’t a single witch in the entire state of Massachusetts who was more knowledgeable, or more powerful, than the aunts. 

However, the words utterly refused to leave Gillian’s lips, sticking to her tongue like hot, gooey molasses. Why in the world couldn’t she seem to shake the overwhelming feeling that what had happened during her shift was private, sacred even. It made no damn sense! 

What sort of twilight-zone, bizarro world was she living in?! She, Gillian Owens, was suddenly too timid to discuss things like lust and masturbation, but Saint Sally now had crazy greenhouse worktable sex in the middle of the freaking afternoon?! Oh, Goddess, her life had gotten too weird for words!

“Umm…now really isn’t the time to talk about it. The girls are waiting for us. We’ll discuss it later. You know how overprotective Sal is. If she finds out we left them alone at a carnival all evening, when we were supposed to be supervising, she’ll get so mad- she’ll pop that baby out early and then the newest Owens girl will come out of her mother’s womb lecturing me about how irresponsible I am,” Sally told them, punctuating her strained joke with an obviously forced laugh, before taking another overeager drag of her cig. 

The aunts shared a long, laden look between them and then aunt Frances gave Gillian one of her famous “I smell bullshit” frowns, but neither of them pressed her any further…which was shocking really. Far be it for Gillian to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Alright dear, later then,” aunt Jet conceded, although hesitantly.

“Well, let’s get going. The sooner we all get this little outing over with, the sooner we can get back to the air-conditioned house. I could just kiss myself for having the foresight to have it updated, back when you and your sister first came to live with us as children,” aunt Frances told her, companionably linking her arm with Gillian’s.

They walked to the park in relative silence, but the lingering, speculative glances the aunts kept shooting at her, out from the corners of their eyes, seemed to say a million different things all at once.

* * *

The carnival was surprisingly packed, considering the weather, but the people of Maria’s Island, as well as a large crowd of mainlanders and tourists, seemed determined to experience the _Carnaval de Vise_ (which Gillian had recently learned was Romanian for _Carnival of Dreams,_ according to aunt Jet.) One of the big tourist-acclaimed draws of the carnival was that the majority of its workers were Romanichal gypsies- lending the operation a highly-praised feeling of old-world authenticity.

It was the carnival’s first ever visit to the island. Usually, it toured around the mainland, on its yearly circuit, before leaving the state entirely. However, the mayor was a huge fan of throwback, old-school-style entertainment and since _Carnaval de Vise_ was supposedly like stepping back in time and experiencing the carnivals of yesteryear, he had pushed to bring it to the folks of Maria’s Island. 

Sally, Gary, and the aunts had taken the girls when the carnival had been in Provincetown last summer, and they’d all gushed about how fascinating and whimsical it had been, with its old-fashioned sideshow, hall of oddities, and supposedly even a fortune teller with a crystal ball. Gillian hadn’t been able to get anyone to cover her shift at the café, so she’d stayed behind with the promise of trying to go the next time it toured around on the mainland. 

At the start of the summer, the mayor had announced that the _Carnaval de Vise_ would be paying its first-ever visit the island, later in August, and Gillian had been looking forward to finally getting to experience its nostalgic wonder. Well, more like she **had** been looking forward to it, before the heatwave had settled in like an unwanted guest who refused to leave and **before** her shift from hell. 

Now she found herself fighting the urge to tell the girls that they could have exactly an hour’s worth the _fun_ then they were going the hell home, where she could escape the weather, which was apparently trying to melt her brain…or was it something more? 

Gillian couldn’t help but allow the question to circle round and round in her head, like aunt Frances’ sleek black cat tirelessly chasing a ball of yarn. Was it really the weather that had her on edge or was it being there at the carnival, with its collective of gold and candy-apple red striped tents (which seemed so weirdly familiar) that made her uneasy? Why did it feel like she’d been there before when she **knew** she hadn’t?

When Gillian had won a giant stuffed panda for Antonia at the dart game, she had to bite her tongue from thanking the squat, dark-haired man, who’d handed her niece the oversized toy, by name.

 _“Thanks, Duke,”_ had popped into her head out of nowhere, making the fine coppery hairs on Gillian’s arms rise on end.

How did she know his name? She’d never seen him before in her life!

_You don’t know if that’s his name. He could go by Billy Joe for all you know!_

Gillian had chided herself inwardly, as she’d ushered the girls and the aunts onto their next activity.

The unsettling feeling of déjà vu refused to abate and stubbornly tailed Gillian throughout the remainder of the evening; as relentless as her own shadow. In the _Hall of Oddities_ , she had somehow known that the fetus of a two-headed calf would be on display, even though none of her family members had recounted that particular detail of their previous visit to the carnival.

She’d also known that the little person (a woman who went by the moniker of _Thumbelina_ , who the _Carnaval de Vise_ touted to be one of the smallest living women in the world) was actually named Margaux and had worked in a shoe shop in Paris, before she was recruited for the sideshow by the carnival’s owner, during his vacation to France, five years prior.

Not a soul had uttered that little tidbit of information. Somehow Gillian had just _known_ it, in the same way, she knew it to be hot out and that her own hair was red. Yet she reminded herself that, aside from her knack with palm reading, and the occasional flash of witchy Owens intuition, she wasn’t much of a psychic. 

If she had been, Gillian reckoned she would have bolted the very second her eyes had met Jimmy’s for the first time, at that pool party in Tausan. 

So, no matter how her mind restlessly whispered and tittered at her that she knew things she couldn’t possibly know, Gillian insisted to herself that it was nothing more than her overly romanticized imagination on overdrive. She was tired, stressed out, and overheated. She wasn’t quite feeling herself, and that was all there was to it.

She probably should have begged-out of going to the carnival to begin with. A quick recap of her day would have doubtlessly garnered her an excusal from the evening’s plans. Heck, it still wasn’t too late for that. 

Gillian knew that if she just opened her mouth and told the aunts she wasn’t feeling well, it was pretty much a guarantee that they’d tell her to go on home, give her over a dozen recommendations for teas and tonics that would perk her right up, and then assure her that they’d bring the girls home when they were done for the night. 

Yet something about the itchy, squirmy sense of anticipation that seemed to be building to somewhat of a fever-pitch within her, stubbornly insisted that she, Gillian Owens, was right where she needed to be.

To make matters yet all the stranger still, as the evening pressed on, Gillian found her eyes continuously catching on the one tent that boldly flaunted the carnival’s red and gold color scheme. The royal purple and metallic silver tent, with its numerous sequined indigo stars intricately stitched to its flap, seemed to be sending out some silent plea for her attention. 

Every single time Gillian tried to pry her gaze from the swirling charcoal-black script of the sign posted just outside of the glitzy tent; she found her line of vision being sucked right back to it, as if by some relentless invisible force.

_Madam Kezia ~Fortune Teller~_  
-Tarot Readings  
-Palm Readings  
-Crystal Ball Gazing 

Gillian had no idea why she was so fixated. The aunts could read her tea-leaves, her cards, and her palms for free. Hell, she could read her own, except it was an Owens family superstition that it was bad luck to foretell one's own future.

Simple fact- If the aunts read her fortune, they wouldn’t be lying through their teeth. Madam Kezia, however, was a carnival fortune teller; that was pretty much all there was to say in regards to the legitimacy of her _gift_.

Yet, as Gillian sat with her family at a picnic table that conveniently faced the fortune teller’s spangled tent, she couldn’t seem to stop her eyes from tracking the people who trickled in and out with a perplexing, but avid, interest. 

As she polished off the last of the spicy lamb kababs from the family-sized platter they’d purchased from one of the food booths for supper, she couldn’t help but notice Nan Peterson and Debbie Banks (mom friends of Sally’s), coming out of the silver and purple tent (sans kids) with girlishly flushed cheeks, as they giggled excitedly to one another. 

Just what had the supposed fortune teller told them, to get them acting like a couple of teenagers, Gillian wondered? Probably boring mom stuff, like how to get grass stains out of their kids’ clothes or a recipe for gluten-free, whole-wheat chocolate chip cookies. Snore! 

Maybe Madam Kezia had told them who would next miraculously come back from the dead on their favorite soap? Didn’t take much to please all the dull soccer moms in these parts, Gillian thought; not quite sure why her mood had suddenly taken a turn for the catty.

“Really Gillian, just go in already. If you stare at that damn tent any harder, you’re going to burn a hole straight through it,” aunt Frances smirked, wiping kabab sauce from the corner of her mouth with a crumpled napkin.

“You should go, aunt Gillian. Madam Kezia is so much fun. She wears a head-thing made of dangly gold coins and waves her hands over her crystal ball, just like in the movies! Mom let us go see her when the carnival was in Provincetown last year. She told me I was brave and was going to do great things someday. She told Kylie she’d fall in love with a boy mom didn’t approve of,” Antonia chirped happily, slurping loudly from the cup of soda she held in one hand, and hugging her new jumbo stuffed panda to her side with the other.

“Madam Kezia is full of it,” Kylie sulked, but the tomato-red blush that suddenly bloomed bright on her nieces’ cheeks had Gillian instantly suspicious of just how _full of it_ the fortune teller had been on that particular subject.

“Oh hush, Kylie. Jetty and I saw you kissing Peter Mills outside the market last week and don’t think for one minute that I don’t know the look of a girl who’s smitten,” aunt Frances chided her with a playful wink.

Antonia burst into a fit of giggles, spraying soda everywhere, which she quickly followed up with singing, _“Kylie and Peter sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”_

“Oh god, Aunt Frances! Now she’ll never shut up!” Kylie whined, hiding her scarlet face in the protective cover of her hands.

“Peter Mills? As in Sarah Mills’ kid? As in the boy who used to start the _witch, witch, you’re a bitch_ chants? The kid that you hexed with chicken pox three years ago? The one with the stupid looking bowl-cut?” Gillian asked, feeling her brows nearly touch her hairline in shock.

“The very same. Although, he’s long since ditched the bowl-cut **and** he's a great deal sweeter now. Wouldn’t you agree, Kylie?” aunt Jet replied with an all too cheeky grin.

Kylie only groaned, mortification at having her family discuss her love life rendering her temporarily mute. 

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes redheaded babies in the baby carriage!” Antonia sang.

“Shut up, Tonia!” Kylie grumbled, muffled from inside the cave of her palms. 

“Oh, wow…does Sal know?” Gillian asked.

“Errr…we thought it best not mention it just yet, with Sally just a month away from her due date and all. No need to put any unnecessary stress on her. It goes without saying- that particular piece of news wouldn’t be well received. You know how she and Sarah are. They’re a lot friendlier with one another than they use to be, especially since Sally has become so chummy with Sarah’s friends Dorie, Nan, and Debbie, but we all know that she and Sarah only tolerate one another. They’re like that term…what’s that one all the young people use now? You know, when two people seem like friends, but they’re not really?” aunt Jet inquired, scrunching her nose in thought.

“Frenemies,” aunt Frances supplied.

“Oh, yes! That’s the one. Frenemies. That’s what Sally and Sarah are for sure. Their rivalry has been going since they were eleven, and chances are they’ll be giving each other strained smiles and back-handed compliments on into the years when they’re silver-haired and arthritic. It’ll be hard enough for Sally to hear her fourteen-year-old daughter has gone and fallen in love, let alone that it’s with Sarah Mills’ son,” aunt Jet sighed, taking a sip from the soda cup at her side.

“Okay, okay. How about you all stop talking about my life like I’m not here?” Kylie huffed, “This is why I’ve been keeping Pete and I a secret. I knew you’d all get weird about it. So, I like a boy mom isn’t crazy about? So what? It’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh, I’ll be reminding you of those words, young lady, when your mother is going around the house all dark and stormy, like a big ole’ passive-aggressive raincloud- pouring down disappointment, snipping at everyone, slamming doors, and grumbling under her breath,” aunt Frances, shot Kylie a wry grin.

“And when you’re as experienced as we, in dealing with matters of the heart, you get to where you can recognize **love** at a mere glance, dear. So, you needn’t try to down-play it for our benefit, by referring to what you have with Peter as _like_ ,” aunt Jet gave the girl a warm, patient smile.

“Ugh, whatever,” Kylie groaned, with a roll of her eyes, her cheeks now the shade of the prize-winning tomatoes aunt Frances entered in the county fair each year. “I’m finished. Can we go see the sideshow now?” she asked, gesturing down at her empty, sauce-stained paper plate and bare kabab stick.

“Yes, of course, my love. I think we’re all finished as well. Ladies?” Jet asked the rest of them with a sweeping gaze of their empty plates.

“Yup! I’m ready, let’s go! I can’t wait to see that lady with all the tattoos, shove nails up her nose again!” Antonia cried enthusiastically, hopping up to throw away her garbage in the can by their table.

“By the way, who are you two to talk about frenemies?” Kylie shot the aunts a mischievous grin, as she turned to dispose of her plate and napkin, “The both of you act all fake-nice to that lady that Gary works with because you can’t stand that she makes better brownies than you and won’t give you the recipe.”

“Kylie Sage Owens, you bite your tongue, young lady! Denise Little’s brownies are **not** better. They’re just _interesting_. It's not our fault she’s a stuck-up prig who won’t share,” Jet grumbled, sulkily throwing her and Frances’ garbage into the can a tad more forcefully than necessary. 

“Easy, Jetty,” Frances grinned, “You’ve got smoke all but coming out of your ears.”

Jet only turned back to the table to gather up her purse and parasol, grumbling about _“condescending, arrogant bakers who ruin it for everyone else.”_

Gillian bit her lower lip to keep from laughing and goading aunt Jet further. Kylie was right- the aunts couldn’t stand Denise, especially aunt Jet who took the woman’s superior baking skills as some sort of personal insult. Well, she had to hand it to her sneaky niece. The girl had successfully derailed any further conversation of her and her not-so-secret-boyfriend. 

“Alright, we don’t want to be late for the shoving of nails up a lady’s nostrils,” Frances announced as she gathered up her things and handed Antonia her over-large panda, “Lets scoot.”

“Oh, not you, dear,” Frances added when Gillian quickly wiped her hands on her napkin, got up, gathered her bag, disposed of her garbage, and turned to go with them.

Gillian only blinked at her in confusion. Had she said or done something wrong?

“You have a date with that tent over there,” aunt Frances motioned to Madam Kezia’s, “You couldn’t even pry your peepers away from it while we were grilling Kylie. So go. You know you want to.”

Gillian bit her lip, unexpected apprehension eating at the edges of the inexplicable pull of the fortune teller’s tent.

“And before you say anything, you know it’s bad luck to read your own palm, and Jetty and I are otherwise engaged. Watching people eat glass and lie on a bed of nails is very riveting stuff, we wouldn’t want to miss it. Might as well have someone else do the fortune-telling. It’s important to know one’s future so that you can aim yourself in the right direction,” Frances informed her with a saucy wink.

“Oh, yes, dear. Go on ahead. Meet us at the sideshow tent when you’re done,” aunt Jet chimed in with a shooing motion of her hand.

Suspicion began to needle at Gillian, making her eyes narrow, as she carefully assessed the over-eager looks that her aunts were trying their damndest to will from their expressions. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the aunts were meddling, yet she believed Jet’s adamant vow that they weren’t casting.

_Screw it, what could it hurt to get one reading? Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky and Madam Kezia will be legit and have some insight into today's weirdness. A girl can dream…_

Gillian thought, with a conceding nod of her head.

“Alright, I’ll just pop in for a second. See you ladies in a bit,” Gillian told them and was instantly met with a chorus of enthusiastic _see-you-laters_.

With a shake of her head and a light chuckle of bewilderment, Gillian turned and headed towards the purple and silver tent, with its sequined stars twinkling enticingly in the orange, raspberry haze of the setting sun. 

As Gillian neared Madam Kezia’s, she passed by the overcrowded adult beverage booth, where of-age carnival patrons waited in a massive, winding line for overpriced beer and wine.

“Gillian! Gillian! Over here!” 

Gillian turned her head at the sound of a familiar voice calling her name, to see Debbie and Nan waving her over from their spot towards the back of the drink line- their faces still all flushed, punch-drunk smiles stretching their lips. Gillian couldn’t help but wonder just how many times they’d stood in that particular line that evening.

“Girl, are you heading to the fortune-teller?” Nan asked with a gleam of excitement flashing in her brown eyes.

“Ummm…yeah. My aunts practically bent my arm,” Gillian smiled sheepishly.

“Oh. My. God. Gillian, you have **no** idea! That is one **hot** gypsy,” Nan grinned.

“Shh! I don’t know if they like that term. I think you’re supposed to say Romany or Romanichal,” Debbie corrected her friend, then turned to Gillian, “But she’s not exaggerating though. Hot with a **capital-H**!”

With that, the two women broke out into a full-on giggle-fit that had Gillian wondering if the heat had maybe gone and turned their brains to syrup in their skulls. From what she had ascertained, from Sally and the others, Madam Kezia was an elderly woman. 

Not that Gillian was judging- she'd had a brief experimental phase in her early twenties. However, she wasn’t aware Nan and Debbie swung that way. Maybe they really had been hitting up the drink booth a little too much? Or who knew, maybe Madam Kezia really was that striking, in a silver-fox kinda way…maybe?

“Okay, well…I’m gonna go ahead and go now…” Gillian gave the women an awkward smile, gesturing to the purple and silver tent not far behind.

“Have fun…” Nan sing-songed with a wink and Debbie smothered another burst of girlish giggles behind her hand.

“Umm…okay…see you two later,” Gillian told them and booked a hasty retreat in the direction of the Madam Kezia’s tent.

_What in the hell was that all about? Maybe they’re on something. I did read an article recently, about a new trend of soccer moms getting hooked on OxyContin…if they are on Oxy, they didn’t even offer to share. Rude!_

Gillian thought, shaking her head, as she quietly chuckled at own mental joke. 

However, a sudden, weird- almost _slithering_ , sensation on her right arm, had her soon stopping right in her tracks. Gillian glanced down, swearing for a mind-boggling, breath-freezing, half-instant that she’d actually seen the snake tattoo on her wrist move.

 _What in…the world…_

She frowned, staring at the green serpent rendered on her flesh, which of course, **wasn’t** moving- because it was just ink. Just ink trapped beneath her skin, nothing more. Gillian squinted, lifting her wrist close to her face- turning her arm this way and that, to view her tattoo from all angles. 

Maybe it had been just a trick of the fading sunlight…then what about the strange slithering feeling? Maybe the sun had turned **her** brain to syrup, Gillian mused ruefully, and there she’d been, judging Nan and Debbie.

She began to wonder if maybe she should just call it a night, go find the Aunts and tell them she was going home. Clearly, she’d overdone it and pushed herself too hard in the harsh temperature. Maybe she just needed to go home and go to bed early.

As soon as Gillian began to turn in the direction of the sideshow tent, where she knew she’d find her family, an unexpected breeze suddenly whipped across her face- causing the sweat-dampened tendrils of red hair at her temples to stir in its blessedly cool dance. 

Wind! At last! Oh Goddess, it felt like heaven- caressing her sticky, perspiration-coated skin. And what was that smell? It smelled like soap…hints of men’s spice-scented aftershave…the sharp bite of orange oil…and sawdust? As far as Gillian was concerned, it was the best damn smell combination in the world! She found herself inhaling fiercely, as another luxuriously cold gust buffeted her body, making her lightheaded and woozy, as she attempted to drag the enticing aroma the wind seemed to be carrying, as deeply into her lungs as possible.

With the oddly alluring smell came the return of the weird, unbidden horniness- her nipples hardening to stiff little peaks beneath the shielding cover of her bra, her core clenching, and her clit tingling. Her center was slick and ready, and shivers of excitement danced up and down her spine, like ants scurrying to and froe, down the slope of an anthill. 

A muffled little moan broke from her lips, as Gillian closed her eyes, savoring the interesting scent combination, accompanied by the cool touch of the breeze… and the longer she stood there, the more she could swear she felt the contrasting heated brush of velvety, warm fingertips, roving torturously slow up and down the expanse of her arms- drifting low to the sliver of bare skin at her stomach (exposed by her crop-top), circling the dip of her navel in a tantalizing tease.

Gillian whimpered, wanting more- **needing** more. She had no clue what was going on, and frankly, it should be scaring the shit out of her- but Goddess help her, she wanted to bathe in that scent. She wanted those phantom fingers **everywhere**. She was probably losing her goddamn mind- flighty, feather-headed, Gillian finally letting the cheese completely slide off her damn cracker, but screw it, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

_More…I need you…_

She whispered silently, desperately, into the feverish swirl of her mind- having no idea to whom, or what, her thoughts were directed. Then, just like that- the cool blast of air died, taking the phantom caress with it, as if Mother Nature (the spiteful bitch), had abruptly cut the power on Gillian’s otherworldly air-conditioner. 

Dazed, and more than a little rattled, Gillian opened her eyes, scanning the surrounding crowd for any signs that someone, anyone, had just experienced what she had. 

“Excuse me, did you just feel that? The breeze? Did you feel it?” Gillian reached out a trembling hand to stop a random man crossing her path.

“Breeze? Sugar, I think that’s just wishful thinking…but if you wanna come back to my place, we can crank up the A.C. and see what happens,” the man, looking to be in his late thirties (and kinda cute in a sweaty, average-working-Joe sort of way) grinned, letting his eyes rake up and down her body with evident appreciation.

“No thanks,” Gillian replied- curt, clipped, and direct.

The guy’s hungry stare made Gillian’s insides go cold. The obvious lust burning in his eyes made her feel oddly empty. The wild desire she’d felt, just seconds before, had seemingly evaporated with the return of the cloying heat. 

The old Gillian (the one before Jimmy Angelov), would have preened at his attention, batted her eyes, and might have even accepted his invitation with a breathy _“alright, let’s go.”_ Goddess knew it had been **ages** since she’d had sex with anything other than her battery operated boyfriend.

However, this guy wasn’t who she was looking for. Gillian knew that with a sharp, bone-deep certainty…even though she wasn’t aware, she was supposed to be looking for anyone. Yet it was a feeling Gillian couldn’t seem to shake- settling deep within her gut and burning with a determined sort of certainty.

“Okay. Your loss, babe,” the random man grumbled, with a roll of his eyes, apparently not the type to take rejection very well, as he blended back into the flow of passing foot traffic. 

Gillian continued to let her gaze dart around, feeling more and more unnerved, by the fact the no one else seemed to be stopping to marvel over, or discuss, the unexpected gust of wind that had just come and gone. With the sort of stifling evening it was, she was sure at least a few people would have stopped to comment on the abrupt bit of relief that had just rolled in.

 _Weird…_

Gillian thought, with a twinge of unease, her hand involuntarily coming up to clasp her lucky tiger’s eye pendant- the smooth surface of the sun-warmed stone ever-comforting to the touch. 

Wait…there was that smell again, instantly revving-up her inner sense of hunger, which had absolutely **nothing** to do with food. Greedily, she inhaled the aroma once again, letting herself become all but drunk on the heady scents of soap, aftershave, citrus oil, and wood shavings. Goddess, why did it smell so fucking good?! 

It was funny…the beguiling scent seemed to be coming from one particular direction. With sudden realization, it hit her, like a bucket of ice water to the face. The smell…it was coming from the fortune teller’s tent! 

With her eyes narrowing in wary suspicion, Gillian followed her nose straight to the spangled purple and silver tent- her theory confirmed when the aroma got so strong it overwhelmed her senses to the point of feeling faint. Gillian believed her aunts about not casting at her, but **someone** was…and said someone was most definitely inside that tent! 

Gritting her jaw as hot indignation-laced anger warred with the rampant arousal still pulsing throughout her being, Gillian decided she was going to get some damn answers and make Madam Kezia (or whoever the hell it was) fess-up about why they were screwing with her!

With her hands balled to white-knuckled fists at her sides, Gillian stalked up to the entrance of the fortune teller’s tent, sidestepping a happy teenage couple who came traipsing out, hand-in-hand. Gillian pointedly ignored the line of carnival-goers that stood to await their turns at a reading, as she lifted a trembling hand to part the still-swinging gold-beaded curtain that flimsily shielded the tent’s entrance.

“I have urgent business with Madam Kezia, sorry!” she snapped over her shoulder when she heard some of the line-waiters begin to protest.

Dragging in a deep, fortifying breath, Gillian pushed aside the beaded curtain so forcefully; she was a bit surprised when it didn’t come crashing down at her feet.

“Madam Kezia, my name is Gillian Owens, and I demand to know-” she began, storming past the clattering strands of beads.

However, when she caught sight of the man who sat at the fortune-teller’s table, all further words abruptly died in her throat- her eyes wide- feet all but frozen where she stood, on a large royal-blue Persian rug.

She didn’t know him- hadn’t seen him at all before that moment, because surely if she had, she would have remembered. Yet every cell in her body seemed to cry out in instant recognition as if she somehow knew him on a level that went beyond the physical plane of existence.

He regarded her with intent amber eyes that oddly reminded Gillian of the pitcher of sun-tea that aunt Jet always left to steep on the back porch, during the warmer months- that warm golden glow that would shine through the moisture-fogged glass. Oh, but they were remarkable eyes…

However, that was far from the only thing that was remarkable about him. His thick, wavy mahogany hair that looked just long enough not to have been touched by scissors in a few months made Gillian’s fingers itch to run through it, to see if the texture was even half as soft as it looked.

His olive-toned skin wore a light sheen of perspiration from the stifling heat- lending him just the faintest shimmer in the dim candlelight provided by the two wrought-iron candelabras that flanked either side of his elaborately carved, high-backed chair. 

He looked like a gypsy king/sex god- sitting there in his throne-like seat, with his impossibly chiseled cheekbones, dimpled chin, and an enticing dusting of dark facial hair. A small silver hoop winked in his left ear, and the form-fitting black dress-shirt he wore (rolled up at the sleeves) had the top two buttons undone- providing a mouth-watering peek at the well-built, muscular chest beneath the dark fabric.

_Fucking hell! No wonder Nan and Debbie were all in a tizzy!_

Gillian thought, sudden understanding dawning in her reeling mind.

_Who could blame them…he’s absolutely gorgeous…_

Yet physical beauty wasn’t the only thing about this man that called to her. She felt it- sincere goodness, his aura pure and luminescent. He didn’t touch women, or anyone, in anger. He was dependable, hard-working, loyal, and would give his family the shirt right off his back if they so asked. 

This was no dangerous, brooding bad-boy, like James Angelov. Right here, before her, sat the real-deal, and just like every other random bit of unnerving information that had inexplicably popped into her head that day, Gillian somehow knew it all to be stone-solid fact.

_There you are…where have you been all this time?_

The rhythmic thudding of her heart seemed to whisper to him, as Gillian began to wonder if her suddenly rubber-like knees would continue to keep her upright. 

It was then that she realized that the beautiful not-quite-stranger was staring back at her, looking every bit as thunderstruck as she felt. His full lips were parted, as if in surprise. His thick, dark brows were furrowed in confusion until they suddenly smoothed and lifted (as if in recognition)- a wide smile that Gillian silently swore could melt her insides to bubbling goo, shaped his mouth.

“It’s you…” he murmured, sounding almost breathless.

His voice was tinged with the barest hint of a southern accent, and oh Goddess, it was sexy as hell- making Gillian want to swoon and drop to the rug-covered ground, like the overly dramatic women in old movies. He rose to his feet, revealing himself as decently tall and impossibly fit- as displayed by his blessedly snug jeans.

Oh boy, did his statement stir up about half a million questions, all screaming over one another in an aggressive vie for dominance, inside Gillian’s skull. Nervously, she licked her dry lips and prepared to put a voice to at least a few of them. Instead, all that came out was: 

“You don’t look like a **Madam** Kezia.”

With that, the dark-haired man chuckled- an easy, low melodic sound that brought mental images of smooth southern whiskey and the thrumming cadence of Spanish guitars, to Gillian’s mind. Just the sound of it made her toes involuntary curl against the soles of her sandals and her core clench all the tighter. 

_Damn…that laugh could melt the stone panties off a statue!_

“I should hope I don’t look like a sixty-two-year-old woman,” he grinned, flashing a mouthful of picture-perfect white teeth.

-Teeth Gillian tried and failed **not** to imagine nibbling all over her body.

“Madam Kezia is my mother. Unfortunately, she caught a stomach virus, so I’m filling in for her. I used to help her with the readings, back before I left the carnival and moved to Provincetown- _to live like a gorger,_ as mom puts it- a gorger is a person who isn’t a gypsy,” he provided when Gillian quirked a brow in question, at the unfamiliar term.

“So typically,” he continued, “when the carnival comes back through these parts, I come to visit and help out if she needs it. Most of my family is with the carnival. My uncle owns it, so I have cousins, aunts, more uncles, second-cousins, you name it, running all around here.”

Gillian couldn’t help but feel an unexpected surge of excitement at the news that he was local and didn’t travel with his family.

“Ah, P-town. That’s only like a half an hour from here…if you don't count the ferry ride," she murmured, and when he grinned all the wider, she hastily added, “Not that it matters where you live. Just…err…making conversation…but umm, I can’t help but be curious- if most of your family stays with the carnival, what made you leave?” the prying inquiry squirmed right off Gillian’s tongue before she could think twice and swallow it down.

Then again, was she really sorry? Nope- the inexplicable urge to learn every little thing she possibly could about the mystery guy was bearing down on her something fierce.

“Furniture, actually,” he replied with a laugh, “That’s why I left.”

“Furniture? Really? Wow…I guess the ambiance around here had me thinking it would be something so much more dramatic and romantic than that; like you running away with a- what was it again? Oh, a _gorger_. Something along those lines,” she teased, while not-so-covertly trying to find out if he even liked none-gypsy women.

Although Gillian sincerely hoped there wasn’t a woman in the picture, gorger or otherwise. A glance at his hands revealed that he didn’t wear a wedding band- but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He could be one of those guys who found rings annoying…or he simply had a girlfriend…or **many** girlfriends. A Guy who looked like him **had** to have a hoard of women practically throwing their panties at him.

Gillian wasn’t sure why she cared about that anyway- why the thought of him with another woman (when she’d just met him) made her guts tie-up in knots worthy of the Eagle Scouts. Had she not inwardly rolled her eyes at Sally, when her sister had so breezily suggested she _“get back out there,”_ only earlier that day? 

Getting entangled with a man had always meant some form of drama for Gillian- whether it be something mild, like a spat over who got to keep a certain comfortable t-shirt after a split. Or something that could have easily been written by the master of Horror, Mr. Stephen King himself…like Jimmy kidnapping her and Sally, later possessing her, then attempting to assault Sally, while in her body. 

Yeah…life the last three years (man-free) had been so blissfully uncomplicated.

_Uncomplicated…but lonely…_

She thought with an inward sigh.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but it wasn’t all dramatic or romantic. I make handmade furniture, and there’s only so far you can take something like that while traveling around. Only so much business to be garnered from random flea markets and craft fairs while keeping to the carnival’s tour schedule. We’d pass through Provincetown every year, and something about its picturesque charm just got under my skin. So, I saved up my money, opened up a shop there four years ago, and the rest is history,” he smiled, his eyes filled with such warmth, that it all but took Gillian’s breath away.

She wasn’t sure if said warmth was directed at her or had bloomed in his gaze from talking about something he was obviously passionate about and understandably proud of. Gillian wasn’t complaining- as long as he kept looking at her like that. Oh Goddess, her heart was beating a mile a minute!

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling now. I’m sure you didn’t come here for my life story, miss…I believe you said your name was Gillian when you came storming in here- Gillian Owens, correct?” he asked, crossing over to her.

That’s when it hit Gillian- the same scent she’d been smelling since that bizarre wind had caught her on her way to the tent, the one that had lured her there- Soap, aftershave, orange oil, and the lingering hint of sawdust. It was coming from **him** , because **of course** it was- barreling up her nostrils, leaving her woozy and all but drunk on the heady, masculine smell of him.

“Ye-Yeah,” she stammered, “Gillian. That’s me.”

Damn, when was the last time a man had made her feel this unnerved? Her usually rock-solid composure was cracking like a fine china vase that had been tapped repeatedly with a hammer. She'd even kept her cool when that stupid toad had coughed up Jimmy’s ring right in front Gary, and that had been implicating as all hell. Yet she’d managed to somehow keep it together in front of officer Hallet, even when she’d been almost sure she and Sally had been shot straight towards a new life behind bars.

In the past, Gillian had been pretty good at not letting people get under her skin- always taking what she needed then flitting away and on to the next, like a honey bee to flowers. Well, except for Jimmy, who had seeped in like water-rot on a dock, without her noticing until it had been too late. 

Of course, that doozy of an experience had sent her on the defensive- guarding her heart, fortifying it- letting no one in but her family- vicariously living through Sally, soaking up the residual energy or her sister’s happiness and making that be enough. Yet, being in this man’s presence, Gillian found herself woefully unable to pretend any longer.

She’d fooled herself into thinking she was content sitting on the sidelines, content watching everyone else play the game of love- a game she'd never been very good at, despite her past unbridled enthusiasm and all the many, many times she’d recklessly participated. 

She was beyond all that now. It wasn’t worth the bother. That little-redheaded girl who had once murmured to her sister with excitement flashing brightly in her eyes and a dreamy grin stretching her chocolate-smeared mouth- _“I can’t wait to fall in love,”_ had been a naive idiot, Gillian had told herself. 

Yet, this man with his golden amber eyes and his smile that could thaw even the most frozen of hearts, made a voice whisper in her head- a voice that sounded an awful lot like Sally, telling her that she, Gillian Owens was a bald-faced liar.

“Well, Gillian, I’m Danior, Danior Codona. Nice to meet you,” he said stepping closer.

“Danior…that’s a nice name. Rolls off the tongue smoothly,” Gillian replied, but instead of the words being infused with her usual confident, flirty effervescence, they came out hushed, almost hesitant. 

“It means _born with teeth_ ,” he smiled broadly as if purposely displaying the teeth in question.

Once again Gillian’s heart rate sped- her annoying brain again invoking images of Danior nipping her neck, collarbone, and so much more, with those dazzling pearly-whites. Goddess, her already soaked panties were now a sodden mess.

“And…were you? Born with teeth, I mean?” Gillian licked her lips, nerves twisting in her belly, as she tried not to visibly wince at how lame the question sounded.

Damn, but she felt so frustratingly disarmed! Like some old-fashioned gentlemen accepting a duel, only to find that he’d foolishly left his pistol at home.

Danior chuckled, “According to my mom, yes. I had two teeth when I was born. It’s rare, but it happens. My mom likes to tease me that it meant I came into this world hungry for life and anything it threw at me.”

She nodded, not knowing quite what to say to that. Judging from the potent glimmer in his eyes, life wasn’t the only thing Mr. Codona was _hungry_ for. Gillian clamped her thighs together, in another useless bid to stave-off the raw arousal pulsing between her legs, as Danior further invaded her space with his intoxicating scent and his shining aura. It was as if he were sucking up all the oxygen around them, leaving Gillian amazed that she could keep right on breathing when he was looking at her like she might be the answer to a question he’d been asking himself his whole life. 

Danior extended a large, calloused hand, as if for a belated handshake- or maybe he just wanted to touch her, like she so desperately wanted to touch him, without the aid of logic or reason. Yet Gillian found herself shrinking back, despite the immediate, fierce urge to latch onto him and never let go. Her newfound tendency towards pessimism and mistrust, when it came to the opposite sex, began to whisper insidious doubts in her ear- that these feelings were too strong, too sudden, and that if she let herself _spin_ again, she’d fall flat on her ass.

Hadn’t her attraction to Jimmy been sudden and intense like this? Hadn’t she instantly lost her head over him, to the point where she had begun to think up was down and down was up? Hadn’t she been so dazzled by his dark charm that she had allowed herself to turn a deaf ear to the chorus of blaring alarms he’d set off in her senses from the very start? 

With Danior, there weren’t any warnings, loud or otherwise, echoing in her head- only a confusing mixture of excitement, belonging, and the dizzying haze of her anxiety-coated self-doubt…and then there was the bizarre pull- like she was being driven towards him by a magnetic force. Somehow that frightened Gillian more than any slithering feeling of unease.

“Ummm…so, I gotta ask…” Gillian began, desperately grasping at a subject to fill the space between them, to keep from reaching out and grasping Danior’s offered hand- just like every cell in her body seemed to be screaming at her to do.

Pointedly ignoring his still-extended hand, she licked her lips, and pushed on- feigning a casual breeziness in her tone that she just didn’t feel, “Why did you say that when I came into your tent? You said _‘it’s you.’_ Seems like a weird thing to say, considering that I know we’ve never met. Did you mistake me for someone else or something?” Gillian asked, clasping her hands behind her back, to avoid the temptation of his intended touch.

Why in the world did the thought of Danior’s eyes lighting-up for another woman make her stomach hurt with a heavy sort of ache like she’d swallowed a brick?

Apprehension, glinted in Danior’s gaze, as he dropped his hand back to his side. He opened his mouth as if to reply, then shut it with an almost audible _snap_ , as if having thought better of whatever his brain had been about to push past his lips. He gave her a long searching stare as if trying to assess something- what, Gillian hadn’t a clue. The silence grew thick with the tension of whatever it was that was weighing on Danior’s mind, which sent Gillian’s already frayed nerves near the point of totally unraveling.

Just when she was about to open her mouth and demand, _“What?! What the hell is it?”_ \- Danior deflected her with a question of his own.

“I wonder what it was that brought you charging in here, Gillian. What was it that you’d been about to demand of my mother before you realized she wasn’t here?” he asked, his tone even, calm.

-A little too calm, like he was trying very hard to school his emotions.

It was then Gillian’s turn to open her mouth and abruptly close it, at a temporary loss for what to say. She couldn’t tell Danior about the weirdness that had dogged her all day. He’d think her a total nut-job! 

_“Well you see, I’ve been feeling weird and unbearably horny all day. I even went into the restroom at work and rubbed one out, in the middle of my shift! Afterward, I swore I could taste a man’s cum on my tongue. And twice now, I could have sworn I heard a man’s voice whispering to me- a voice that now that I think about it, sounded a lot like yours, even though I couldn’t really hear what he/you were saying,”_ Gillian pictured herself informing him and all but winced at Danior’s imagined reaction.

He’d either laugh himself to the point of tears or demand she get out of his mother’s tent, then promptly file a restraining order against her — all of it, most likely. If there was one thing Gillian was now sure of, it was that Danior wasn’t the one messing with her. Yes, the thought had crossed her mind for exactly half an instant, when she’d first walked in and saw him sitting there. Being that he was the sole occupant of the tent, it had been only reasonable to suspect him. However, the notion had withered and died within her mind as quickly as it had bloomed there.

His aura was guileless and pure. Yes, there were definitely otherworldly forces at work, but Danior wasn’t the source of it.

“Ummm…a reading. I was going to demand a reading,” Gillian fibbed lamely.

From the way Danior quirked his dark brow at her, Gillian gathered that he believed her about as much as he would have if she had claimed to be the reincarnation of Mary, Queen of Scotts. However, he didn’t press or question her, only nodded and ushered her towards his table. After all, it was only fair, to let it drop. He had blatantly left her question unanswered and dangling between them, like errant threads on a shoddily sewn garment- a question she still very much wanted an answer to.

“A reading it is then,” he conceded, pulling out one of the two elaborately carved chairs on the other side of the table for her. 

“Oh, these are gorgeous, the table too, and of course the throne-chair,” Gillian couldn’t help but marvel at the exquisite detailing of the furniture- dark cherry wood, carved in intricate celestial patterns.

“You made them, didn’t you?” she asked, plunking down on the chair’s blue velvet seat cushion and running a reverent finger over a small cluster of carved stars on the armrest, as Danior assisted her with scooting it up to the table.

Gillian could practically feel his energy pulsing through the woodgrain, like echoing voices in a hallway- informing her of just how much time, energy, and love had gone into crafting the piece she sat in, as well as its complimenting companions. She flicked her gaze up to meet Danior’s and the gleam of pride in his amber eyes was unmistakable. He liked that she admired his work, a tell-tale grin stretching his oh-so-kissable-looking mouth.

“Yup. Made them especially for my mom,” he told her, walking around the table to the throne-like chair.

“My aunts would go absolutely nuts for this stuff. Do you have a card?” she asked- equal measures sincere in her claim that Jet and Frances would love his work, and just wanting a way to contact him in the future.

Yes, she was wary of the feelings he sparked within her. There was still so much she didn’t understand, but Gillian knew she didn’t want to walk out of that tent without a way to track him down when she was ready- when she had gathered all the scattered pieces of the puzzle together; when she was sure. That was the sort of woman she’d had to evolve into, out of necessity- the kind of woman who peered cautiously over the edge, without merely closing her eyes and blindly leaping.

“Yeah, of course,” Danior nodded in agreement to her previous request, pausing his attempt to sit, to fish in the back pocket of his jeans.

He brought out a black leather wallet, from which he opened and plucked out a crisp white business card. Danior then came back around to her side of the table, holding it out to her- his gaze raking all over her as he did so. Gillian wasn’t sure if he were trying to analyze her or was simply admiring her. Either way, she found she liked his eyes on her- lingering and taking their time, like a slow caress. Gillian shivered, thinking of the teasing phantom touch she’d experience on the way to his tent, and bit her lower lip, bracing against the insistent pulse of need between her legs.

She tried in vain to distract herself from Danior’s lingering closeness by fixating on his business card, slowly tracing her fingers over the black raised lettering.

_Destin Designs by Danior Codona  
377 Commercial St., Provincetown MA_

Gillian let her fingertips linger over the almost-familiar word.

_Destin…_

She could feel the gentle stir of Danior’s warm breath from above, his body heat radiating out towards her, from where he stood, lingering over her chair.

“Before you ask- no, it’s not a misprint. No one forgot the Y. Destin is Romanian for Destiny. I get asked about it every now and again,” he told her.

“I like it,” Gillian flicked her eyes up to meet his, feeling an instant flutter low in her belly when his gaze was once again pinning hers with that same quiet intensity Danior had regarded her with from the very second she’d barged past the tent’s beaded curtain.

She nearly commented on how the name of his shop seemed oddly fitting, given that meeting him felt a little **too** much like destiny, and how unnerving it was, although undeniably exhilarating. Of course, Gillian bit the words back, refusing to let them hit the air between them. She didn’t want to open that can of worms just yet.

As she’d been taught from childhood- there was power in words, even when not used in spells. Even ordinary words had a sort of mundane magic, and if there was anything she felt there had been an overabundance of that night, it was magic.

“I’ll have my aunts drop in soon. Judging by these pieces,” she tapped the armrest of the chair she sat in with the flat of her palm, “They’ll end up buying half your store. It’s a wonder they haven’t discovered your place already. They like to meet up with friends at Napi’s, on Freeman street, every now and again. Me, I haven’t been to P-town in years. I usually just go to Wellfleet when I want something the island doesn’t have. Ya know, since it’s closer. I tend to be kind of a homebody these days. Ironically though, I was planning on going to this very carnival when it was in Provincetown last year, but I couldn’t get off work.”

“It’s a shame I missed you then. So…if your aunts come to my shop, will **you** be accompanying them? You know, since it’s been so long since your last visit to my quaint little corner of Cape Cod. You really should get reacquainted with it. Provincetown has a large tourist draw for a reason,” Danior prodded, none too subtly- a hopeful lilt in his voice, an almost bashful half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, making Gillian’s heart stutter in her chest.

Apparently, Danior Codona was every bit as adorable as he was sexy. Goddess help her, she was in trouble! She really should try and keep a bit of distance from him, at least for the time being, she reminded herself, for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

“Yeah, I think I can manage that, to get reacquainted with Provincetown, of course,” Gillian couldn’t help but shoot him a teasing, playful smile in return- the words rolling breezily off her tongue, in spite of herself.

Her eyes never left his, as she quickly tucked his card into her bag, “But umm…you have a bit of a line outside, and I didn’t exactly wait my turn in it, sorry. I’m having an off day today. I’m usually not so rude, I swear. And on further thought, I should probably go, and let the nice people I cut in front of have their reading.”

She blushed, instantly worrying her confession of jumping the line had made a bad impression. Damn…why had she just blurted that out like that? Yup, she’d definitely lost her touch with men. The past few years of practically living like a nun (if the frequent use of sex-toys on one's self counted as being nun-ish), had made her rusty as hell.

_Way to go, Gillian! Spend the last three years working super hard on yourself, only to give the hottest guy alive, the idea that you’re still a clueless, self-absorbed bitch. Great job!_

She silently admonished herself with an inward groan.

“Well, the way I see it, my tent, my rules. Okay, so it’s my mother’s tent, but it’s mine for tonight. So, I say you stay,” Danior grinned with a conspiratorial wink.

Gillian found herself instantly letting out a pent-up breath of relief. So, he didn’t think she was awful. In fact, he was willing to bend the rules for her. Why the heck did that make her feel all _glowy_ inside? 

Gillian told herself she should probably get up, insist he see the people she’d cut in line, and walk out. The whole day had been too weird. She needed to go home and try to figure out what it all meant- the strangeness at work, the freaky twitching feeling in the skin around her tattoo, the wind, the ghost-like caress, the voice…she just needed to get her bearings…and probably consult with the aunts.

Instead, she found herself asking:

“Are you sure? What if someone complains to the owner or something?”

“As I said, my uncle owns the place. Any complaints will probably be met with only a polite nod, and a voucher for a free bag of popcorn at one of the food stands. Now, what kind of reading would you prefer? Cards?” Danior gestured to a classic Rider-Waite tarot deck- the deck's signature bright primary colors peeking out from an opened black velvet drawstring pouch, sitting on the other side of the table. “The crystal?” he motioned to a polished crystal orb, which sat in an ornate bronze stand, next to the tarot deck, “Or palms?”

Danior held up his hand in front of her, palm out, and Goddess help her, she had to ball her hands into white-knuckled fists to keep from reaching out and taking his hand in hers- just for the simple pleasure of having his skin pressed against her, despite the fact she had **just** told herself it wasn’t a good idea to touch him, only seconds before.

Cards…she should probably go with the cards.

“Palms,” Gillian found the word bursting from the passage of her lips before she could swallow it down.

Most palm readers touched the person they were reading, and for some stupid, reckless reason Gillian found herself inwardly murmuring _“Eh, screw it”_ to her new nagging sense of caution. She desperately wanted Danior’s hands on her, even if it was just for a reading. Besides, she knew he didn’t have any malicious intentions. His aura was as bright and true as they came. So yes, there was something very strange going on, and she should probably get to the bottom of it…later.

Perhaps there was more of the old, _throw caution to the wind_ , Gillian still lingering around within her than she realized. Perhaps the heat had warped her brain. Or maybe a leopard just couldn’t change its spots. Either way, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from wanting to get as close to him as possible. So why fight it? 

Danior grinned, obviously pleased with her answer, before crossing to the other side of the table and taking a seat in the throne-like chair.

“Hands on the table in front of you, palms up please,” he instructed in a low voice that instantly had Gillian’s heat-addled brain imagining him using the same subtly commanding tone in bed.

_Geez, get it together!_

Gillian inwardly hissed at herself, lifted her bag from her lap to set it by her feet, then did as Danior had asked- laying both of her hands, palms out, on the table between them.

“What happened?” he asked with a frown, nodding towards her bandaged thumb, the result of her earlier coffee mug incident.

“Rough day at work. I’m a waitress at this little café here on the island. I thought it was a good idea to pick up the pieces of a mug I broke, instead of sweeping it up. As you can see, that didn’t work out very well,“ Gillian told him with a small embarrassed chuckle, secretly liking the way his brow knitted in concern over her minor injury.

“Anyway, I’m fine. Go on, please,” she urged.

“Alright. You’re sure you’re okay?” Danior pressed, and Gillian couldn’t help but grin like an idiot over the fact that he cared, as she nodded for him to continue. “Okay then, let’s see…” he murmured, leaning forward to peer thoughtfully at her upturned palms.

“This would be your passive hand,” he gestured to her left hand, “And this is your active,” he gestured to her right.

Gillian gave him a small nod of encouragement. She’d always thought it said positive things about a palmist’s level of skill- being able to determine which hand was which, without asking the client. She had always received gasps of delight and sometimes a bewildered _“How did you know?!”_ during the brief times in the past, when she’d been between relationships, and had to get by on the money she made from readings.

Although, some palmists who liked to use that little trick, merely paid close attention to which hand the client favored, by offering a handshake or other such preference revealing gesture. Although, she had always relied on plain ole’ _Owens intuition_. Still, even if Danior had only paid attention to what hand she’d taken his card with or some other such tell, Gillian was still fairly impressed with his attention to detail.

“A snake,” he nodded, his tone matter-of-fact, gesturing towards her right wrist, “You know, people often mistake a snake tattoo to mean something sinister, but the serpent actually symbolizes transformation, rebirth, and healing.”

“Exactly,” Gillian grinned, a bit excited that someone else actually got it.

More often than not, people regarded her tat with distaste- much like Dorie had, back when Gillian had followed Sally to the girls’ school on phone tree day- _“Is that a snake tattoo?!”_

“I got it two days after my first marriage officially fell apart. See, when I was twenty-two, I met this young fisherman at a bar in Wellfleet. He had dreams of going off to Hollywood to make it big as an actor. Me, I desperately wanted to put this place behind me- to go somewhere no one knew my family or me. So, when he said he’d fallen in love with me on the spot, wanted me to marry him, and run off to California, I said yes and sneaked out of the house when my aunts were asleep- my aunts raised my sister and I, by the way. So, my sister helped me sneak out that night- made me promise not to forget her,” Gillian couldn’t help but spare a glance and a small, knowing smile for the slashing pink scar on her right palm.

“Anyway,” she continued, “the fishermen and I divorced not even a full year later. He was no actor, and I was no housewife. We were too young, dumb, and selfish even to begin to know how to make a marriage work. So, after I decided to leave, I hit the road, determined to keep right on driving, until I received a sign from the universe that I should stop. I ran out of gas along Route-66, not far from a small truck stop that had this little hole-in-the-wall tattoo parlor across the street. So, I took that as a sign. I went in and asked the old hippie who owned the place what he thought I should get…and I came out with this,” Gillian told him, wriggling her tatted wrist for emphasis, “The hippie guy told me it meant rebirth, and that he sensed I was like a snake- shedding my skin for something new. I think he was just angling to get me to sleep with him, which I didn’t do, but I loved the idea of sporting a symbol of renewal. And…I have no idea why I’m telling you all this. You just want to give me a reading, not sit here as a captive audience to my life story.”

Gillian gave an awkward sort of snort/laugh, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Damn! Why was she droning on and on, giving away extremely personal information, as if she were merely chatting about the weather?! She was making herself look like a total flighty nutcase, and she had no idea why. The second Gillian had opened her mouth she hadn’t been able to keep the words from spilling out, like water sloshing from an overfilled bucket. 

A needling sense of Déjà vu feverishly nibbled away at her brain, dredging up Sally’s words from the day that Gary had unexpectedly popped into their lives- when he’d shown up at the house, inquiring as to Jimmy’s whereabouts.

_“I know this sounds really strange, but I don’t think I can lie to him.”_

Back then, Gillian had thought her sister’s statement to be one-hundred percent ridiculous- the result of too much stress on Sally’s poor, easily frazzled nerves. Now…well, now she was beginning to understand all too well.

“Don’t do that,” Danior replied, his tone gentle, yet unyielding, “Don’t regret anything you tell me. I like hearing about your life. Trust me; I’m not judging. I grew up in a traveling gypsy community. I’ve accumulated my fair share of stupid mistakes. I have to ask though; you said you got your tattoo the day after your first marriage fell apart. You’re not married now, are you?”

She couldn’t help but smile at the way he blatantly stared at her bare ring finger, much the way she’d stared at his only moments before.

Gillian shot him a hesitant look from under her lashes. The way he said it- _“I like hearing about your life,”_ it was like they were on a date, doing the whole _tell me about yourself_ thing, rather than the less appealing reality of the situation. He was only giving her a reading after she’d acted like a crazy person, cut his line, and was currently regaling him with tales of her failed marriages- like an idiot, Gillian reminded herself.

“Nope. Not married now. Hubby number two was a plumber, worked for Roto-Rooter. I’ve only been married twice,” she was quick to amend as if that somehow made her look like less of an airheaded commitment-phobe, “He was a nice enough guy, bad gambling addiction though. So, of course, that one didn’t pan out either,” Gillian sighed, hating herself a little for not being able to withhold the less than flattering information from Danior and his all too piercing stare. 

“Anyway,” Gillian wriggled her fingers (eager for a subject change), drawing his attention back to her hands, which were still resting on the table- desperate to direct his soul-searing stare elsewhere.

The longer he stared at her, the more difficult she found it to breathe.

“What do you see, tell me,” she nodded towards her upturned palms.

Danior tore his eyes from hers as if he were reluctant to look elsewhere and hesitantly focused his attention on her hands, studying each palm in turn.

“Well, for one thing, I can tell that this scar right here means a lot to you. It has a lot of significance, for multiple reasons,” Danior motioned to the pocket-knife scar on her right palm, which was now a brighter shade of rose since Sally had recut it, to save her from Jimmy’s blackened soul, the night of the exorcism.

Gillian let a faint gasp of surprise coast past her lips. She’d been expecting the usual- head line, heart line, life line, fate line, yadda, yadda, yadda.

“H-how do you know that?” she asked, feeling slightly off-kilter- thinking back to when she’d glanced down at the mark when she’d been telling him the story of her tattoo.

Maybe he was just reading the tells…maybe.

“I just know,” was all Danior offered in the way of an explanation.

A fresh flutter of nerves stirred within Gillian’s belly, as she thought back to all the random bits of information that had unexplainably popped into her head since she set foot amongst the carnival’s bright, striped tents. Maybe the same was happening with Danior…but how, and more importantly, **why**?

“And…” he continued, “The lines on your active and passive hands are remarkably different, which means you’ve worked very hard to change your basic nature.”

Now they were back in familiar territory- basic information even newbie palmists knew.

“But, you already know all about this stuff, don’t you, Gillian?” Danior’s amber eyes were suddenly flicking back up to hers, searching- for what Gillian wasn’t sure.

“You’re a palm reader yourself. Far better than me. It’s your niche- a natural talent given to you via your unique heritage. You, Gillian Owens, come from a long line of witches,” he told her, as matter-of-fact as if he’d just stated the sky was blue and grass was green.

“Ah,” Gillian let out a slightly uneasy laugh, lifting her right hand from the table to waggle a teasing finger at Danior, “You’ve been talking to the locals, I see. We Owens women are kinda legendary in these parts.”

Gillian’s cheeks heated once again, dreading just what the Islanders had told him. Sure, she and her family had finally been embraced into the tight-knit community, but that didn’t change the fact that the people of Maria’s Island loved themselves an opportunity to tell a tall-tale to an out-of-towner more than most people love Christmas, the Super Bowl, or getting out of jury duty. 

Hell, when Gary had first come to the island, everyone had told him that her family cooked-up placenta bars, worshiped the Devil, and could kill people with a handshake! So, Goddess only knew what Danior had been told. Hell, they wouldn’t even have to make anything up to scare him off. A recounting of how all the phone tree moms had joined forces with Sally and the aunts, to exercise her sociopath of an ex’s evil spirit from her body, would probably do the trick just fine.

“Actually, no,” Danior smiled, slow and easy, which helped to soothe Gillian’s nerves just the tiniest bit. 

“Yes, people have been walking in and out my tent since the carnival opened this afternoon, but when someone goes to see a fortune teller, they typically don’t want to talk about anyone but themselves. So, no- no one has told me a thing about you or your family,” he assured her.

“But…how could you possibly know otherwise? I mean, sure us Owens’ are the stars of all the outlandish stories here on the island…but it isn’t like we’re such a big deal that all of Cape Cod talks about us,” Gillian pried, more than a bit flabbergasted.

“I just know,” was once again, Danior’s only reply, emphasized by a slight shrug of his broad shoulders.

For a long moment, all Gillian could manage was to blink at him, cocking her head to the side, scouring his handsome features for the barest hints of both lies and truth. His amber eyes held nothing but sincerity and a beseeching softness that made her want to reach across the table and squeeze his hand in hers.

“Look, Gillian, I have something to tell you…or rather _show_ you,” Danior’s whiskey-smooth voice was hesitant, nervous even.

What in the name of Hecate did **he** have to be nervous about?! He was the one who was rattling off random facts about her, then answering all her inquiries with a cryptic _“I just know.”_

“Something to show me?” she pressed, a weird mix of caution and excitement cresting inside her.

“I too come from a family whose history has long-running roots in the craft. Although, I don’t have quite the same level of power that I can sense within you…I’m fairly confident that I can show you what I need to…to try and make you understand without you thinking I’m a certified lunatic,” Danior replied, and Gillian’s curiosity mounted- her heart thundering a punishing rhythm against her ribs.

“What do you mean? I’m going to be honest with you; you’re kinda freaking me out…but I also have this weird, nagging feeling that I should trust you,” she told him earnestly, her voice only an octave or two above a whisper.

“Good _draguţă_ , go with that feeling. Believe in it. Trust me,” Danior’s eyes were pleading as he lay his hands, palms upturned, on the table’s smooth surface, “Put your hands in mine.”

Gillian hesitated for only an instant, curiosity and the burning need to touch him winning-out over caution by a landslide.

_Yup, a leopard most definitely cannot change its spots!_

With that she hunched forward, sliding her hands across the table and into Danior’s firm grip. His strong, slender fingers instantly threaded through hers, locking them palm to palm- lifeline to lifeline. The feel of his skin against hers was almost electric, immediately lighting up Gillian’s senses- making her blood practically sing in her veins.

“Do you feel that, _draguţă?_ ” Danior’s voice came in a reverent whisper, “There’s magic between us. I knew there would be.”

Gillian found herself helpless to do anything but nod. How in the hell did merely holding his hands make her feel as if the world were tilting on its axis?! It was as if time had inexplicably stopped in its tracks to regard them, preserving them in that pivotal, breathless moment.

She liked that word he kept calling her… _draguţă_. She had no idea what it meant- something in Romanian, Gillian surmised. The way it rolled off Danior’s tongue, soft and sweet, made her lean towards the conclusion that it was some sort of endearment- a thought that had a small, secretive smile instantly pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Now, I need you to close your eyes and concentrate, Gillian. Focus. See what I saw,” Danior murmured.

With a slight nod of her head and her heart in her throat, Gillian did as he asked- sliding her eyes closed to regard the blackness behind her lids.

“Concentrate…let me show you…” Danior’s voice was a low rumble of a whisper, tickling the inner shells of Gillian’s ears- making her insides go liquid and shivery.

Gillian found herself giving his hands a quick, involuntary squeeze, an automatic reaction to the delicious sensations the smooth timbre of Danior’s voice invoked within her- every fiber of her being straining towards him, silently urging her to get as close as humanly possible. 

And then, like a lantern suddenly lit within the darkness, Gillian began to see images form within the window of her mind’s eye- foggy and mist-tinged one second, then snapping into vivid crystal-clear focus the next. 

Gillian gasped out loud when she realized she was watching herself- moments in her life- play out within her mind as if she were watching a reel of home movies. However, these weren’t moments from her past. That was made clear from the fact that Danior was in them all- each and every one.

Gillian watched in thunderstruck awe, as she saw herself breezily stroll through the door of Danior’s shop in Provincetown, with a take-out bag from The Lobster Pot clutched in her hand.

 _“I brought you lunch,”_ she heard herself call out.

Gillian watched in fascinated reverence as Danior came striding over, to scoop her vision-self up and kiss her senseless, paying no mind to the take-out bag as it fell to the floor, all but forgotten.

The scene shifted, and Gillian saw herself lying in bed with none other than the man who currently held her hands tightly within his own. They were tangled up in red plaid sheets that were unfamiliar to her, the both of them obviously bare beneath the soft barrier. Gillian felt her core involuntarily clench, as she watched Danior kiss a slow, lingering trail down the column of her throat then move the sheet aside to lower his mouth to her breast. 

He looked up at her, head bent, through the cover of his dark lashes. The look of sheer adoration and almost reverent worship he gave her, as he sucked her left nipple between his lips, had Gillian’s toes curling against the souls of her sandals and her suddenly needy center only further making a sticky mess of her panties.

 _“I love you…”_ she heard the Danior in the vision, or whatever the hell it was that she was experiencing, whisper to her against the wet, pebbled bud of her nipple.

Before her vision-self could respond to that passionate declaration, the scene shifted yet again, drawing an involuntary groan of protest from Gillian’s mouth. Yet before she could further express her disappointment, everything went into rapid-fire, as if someone had suddenly hit the fast-forward button.

She saw Danior helping her to move into his cozy little two-bedroom house, with its quaint rust-red siding and white-trimmed dormer windows. 

She saw the two of them walking hand-in-hand everywhere they went. She saw days filled with laughter and nights filled with long talks and frequent bouts fiery lovemaking. She saw herself opening a small boutique on Commercial street, not far from Danior’s shop, where she read palms and tea leaves, as well as sold unique items from local artisans. There was even a shelf stocked full of oils and lotions from Verbena.

She saw a proposal on the beach, just under the rise of Maria’s house- Danior down on one knee in the sand, offering her a hand-carved, black lacquered box with a classic princess cut ring nestled in the velvet lining- the aunts, Sally (with the new baby tucked up on her hip), Gary, and the girls, all cheering them on from where they watched from the cliff above.

She saw a wedding in the aunts’ backyard- twinkling fairy lights strung up everywhere- her in grandma Rowena’s vintage white lace wedding dress and Danior looking devastatingly handsome in a classic white linen suit- a very pregnant Sally, dressed to match her three daughters, in a gown of soft lavender- Sally continuously getting misty-eyed and trying (not so covertly) to hide her mascara-streaked face with her bouquet. 

Gillian saw the seasons pass in a shining blur- Danior (her husband), ever by her side. She saw her belly grow with a tell-tale bump of something she thought she'd never have in a million years- a baby. Despite Gillian's promise to the powers that be that she'd _"be good and have babies,"_ if she and Sally were to avoid prison (the night Jimmy had unexpectedly keeled over of an unintentional belladonna overdose) she hadn't actually meant it. Yet, as she watched the vision of the birth of a baby boy play out- a boy with his father’s dark hair and her green eyes, an unexpectedly fierce sense of longing gnawed within Gillian's gut. Her son would be the first boy to be born in Owens family history since Maria’s banishment to the island in _1691_. Imagine that!

She saw the boy grow into a man of exceptional character and power and then, one day, have children of his own- two little angels, a ginger-haired boy, and a dark-haired little girl, who would often come running at her with their arms flung wide.

_“Grandma, grandma, we missed you!”_

* * *

Gillian snatched her hands from Danior’s with a ragged gasp, her head spinning and her eyes flying wide, her cheeks wet with tears. She felt as if she were helplessly caught in the undertow of conflicting emotions- fear, joy, excitement, apprehension, longing, doubt- they all filled her, choking the breath from her lungs- drowning her in an internal ocean of raw, stinging feeling.

“Wh-what…?” Gillian panted, breathless- desperately trying to suck oxygen into her lungs, frantic for the suffocating sensation of wooziness to dissipate.

“I…I dreamt of those things, off and on, since I moved to the area four years ago. I knew you would be mine before you entered my tent, Gillian- knew it long before we even met,” Danior murmured, sounding almost winded himself as if the sharing of his visions had also overwhelmed him.

“…But…they’re just dreams, right? They-they’re not real,” Gillian spluttered trying in vain to collect her scattered thoughts, like someone desperately trying to piece a hopelessly shattered mirror back together.

The hurt that flickered across Danior’s features was unmistakable- a burr of guilt sharply twisting in Gillian’s gut at the sight of it. Still, it was all just too much, the force of everything she’d seen hitting her like a sledgehammer to the brain, leaving her reeling and all but senseless.

“They’re dreams…but not **just** dreams. You see, the men in my family all have one thing in common. They each dream of the woman they’re meant to be with, starting a few years before they meet, as if the universe is preparing them for their lives to change. These dreams are never wrong either, every detail seen in them always becomes a reality. It’s also said in my family, that when the time grows near for you to meet the woman you’re destined for, strange things happen on both sides. My Grandma claimed she heard my grandfather singing to her from a whole state away, until she finally got in her father’s old beat-up truck, and followed my grandfather’s voice across state lines, just to find out where the singing was coming from. My mom swears that she heard my dad’s heartbeat echoing in her ears for days, before they met at a party,” Danior told her, his tone hesitant, his eyes pleading.

Gillian could only stand there, blinking- forcing the pieces of the puzzle to fit until it all coagulated in her spinning mind. The sudden arousal, the taste on her tongue, the voice, her tattoo, the wind, the phantom caress…they had all been signs that she’d about meet **him**. 

A part of her, a substantial part, wanted to fling herself into Danior’s arms- to kiss him until they were both breathless, to revel in the extraordinary gift that fate had apparently given them. Gillian wanted to believe in that gift.

The other part of her, however, wasn’t sold on the idea. That nagging voice in the back of her mind, the one that now reminded her to look before she leaped, bluntly informed her that it was just too good to be true.

While Gillian did believe in fate and destiny, those fickle bitches had never been friends of hers. They’d favored others though- leading Gary right to the island and to Sally, while Gillian had been cast in the path of a predator like Jimmy. It had been her penance she supposed, for leaving a trail of broken promises, and equally broken hearts, all over the country. You got what you put in, she guessed. Therefore, the murky haze of doubt began to seep in like a poisonous fog, corroding the tiny sparking vestiges of hope that had begun to spring within her.

She would hurt Danior. She always hurt the good ones that looked into her eyes like she was what they’d been waiting for their whole lives- the very same way Danior was looking at her right now. She was no one's destiny unless life had decided to teach them the kind of stinging, bitter lesson that stuck with a person for years- like a festering scab that would never entirely heal-over right. 

Sure, his dreams had portrayed them as happy in the future, but she couldn’t help but inwardly scoff at their supposed accuracy. Every detail always came true, as far as Danoir knew. His family could have always left stuff out and put a little spit-polish on the particulars, shinning them into a much prettier story than what reality had dealt. 

She couldn’t take the chance…it was just too much- her future mapped out for her within a matter of moments. She’d fuck it all up. She’d take that shinning, golden dream of their life together and turn it into dogshit. That’s what she’d always been best at.

“I’m sorry…I…I need…some air…I need to go. I’m not who you want or need. Trust me on that,” Gillian breathed her voice reed thin, a fresh onslaught of tears pricking at her eyes and threatening to spill over.

Danior blinked at her, confused- clearly not expecting the response he got. Not giving him a chance to gather his wits, Gillian snatched up her bag and ran from his tent- into the smothering embrace of the hot, cloying night air. 

The sun had set while she’d been in the tent, but it had done laughably little to cool things down. It was muggier now — the kind of wet, sticky heat that clings to your lungs when you breathe it in. The type of heat that makes you do six crazy things before you’ve even fully registered you’ve done one. Gillian supposed that was what she was doing- something crazy, running from the perfect guy.

She tried her best to ignore the sound of Danior, calling her name, pleading with her to come back- trying not to feel the pull of his earlier words around the all too dangerous region of her heart.

_“I knew you would be mine before you entered my tent, Gillian- knew it long before we even met.”_

Gillian kept right on running, until the sound of his shouts melded into the surrounding din of the carnival- her sandals pounding out a dull thud against the park’s vast lawn, dodging curious gawkers as she went. She only paused to catch her breath when she reached the sideshow tent, just as the show was letting out. 

“I’m going home, and no, I’m not explaining myself just yet,” she told the aunts in a winded rush, as soon as she’d located them, and the girls, in the milling crowd.

Before any of them could press her, Gillian was off again like a shot- letting the burn of exertion in her side and the sting of sweat dripping into her eyes distract her from the weird, hollow ache in her heart, as she ran all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Practical Magic has always been one of my favorite movies. It’s one of the few films I can watch over, and over, and over again, without getting sick of it. I was watching it this past summer when the idea for this fic hit me and refused to leave me be, despite me already being up to my eyeballs in writing projects.
> 
> This will be a two-parter. I didn’t want to do a bunch of chapters with this one, so the second part (just like the first) will be long. I just wanted to give Gillian her own happily ever after. Yes, I know, in the novel by Alice Hoffman, she meets someone (after Jimmy) and has her own love story…but honestly, the book was **sooooo** drastically different from the film, that I view them as two separate entities. So no, this fic won’t be at all canon complaint to the book. And just FYI- all my knowledge of the Romanichal gypsy culture, such as names, phrases, etc., were gleaned from the wide world of Google and old episodes of My Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding lol. So, if any of you are of the Romany culture, I apologize for any inaccuracies, and am open to suggestions of how to portray your culture, if you have any. 
> 
> I’ll be finishing part two when I have a breather, in-between my other projects. I promise smut is to come in part two.
> 
> Kudos and comments are encouraging and greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for reading!


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